Roxanne St. Claire - Barefoot With a Bad Boy (Barefoot Bay Undercover #3)

by Roxanne St Claire

  The beach was fairly deserted with most of the yellow umbrellas shading empty sand, which was understandable considering what day it was. But she still checked out every stranger she saw, constantly aware, constantly on guard.

  That was another aspect of her life that would change with Gabe’s help. A new identity and home would certainly help take her farther away from the guarded, worried existence of an operative. If only that life could include—

  “I got your present.”

  She spun around, instantly braced for a battle, one hand reaching for the pistol hidden under her top.

  “Gabe.” How had he done that? He’d been right on her heels, and she hadn’t even realized it. What was wrong with her? She puffed out a breath of self-disgust.

  “Where you been?” he asked.

  “Out.”

  “I’ve been sniffing around Rockrose for hours.”

  “I was…out.” She didn’t want to play any more verbal games with him, but she wasn’t about to tell him where she’d been. Not yet. It was still too risky. He had to believe her first.

  “I came to thank you.” He held up the picture.

  An unexpected surge of warmth at the sight of Gabe holding Rafe’s picture rolled over her. “You like it?”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a perfectly delicious Rossi grin, one that matched the smile in the picture he held up. “This is legit,” he announced.

  Of course he’d know that. Gabe’s ability to spot a doctored picture was one of the reasons she was so certain giving it to him had been a good idea.

  “And a quality piece of bait, blondie.”

  “I’m not trying to bait you. I’m here to convince you I am who I say I am, and that he…” Needs his father. “He…”

  “Is alive.”

  She laughed softly, the sound of a little boy’s laughter and shrill screams of Christmas morning excitement still in her ears. “Very much so.”

  Gabe eyed her. “That might be the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”

  “Don’t get used to it.” Lila wasn’t the laugher Isadora had been. “Do you believe me now?”

  Even in the warm sunlight, she could see some color leave Gabe’s face. “I believe he’s alive,” he said again, a little wonder and a lot of thickness in his voice. “I was so sure he was dead.”

  Pain stabbed her head. Or was that just plain guilt? Hard to tell; they often felt the same. “He’s not,” she assured him.

  His strong shoulders sagged in ever so slight resignation. “How about we start over?” he suggested.

  “Only if you believe what I told you last night.”

  “That you’re Isa—”

  She stopped him with a hand to his lips, a gesture that would look playful to anyone watching, but she added pressure and a warning look. “Not out here.”

  He stared hard at her, his sapphire-blue eyes turning to slits. “Why can’t I say your real name?”

  She lowered her hand, a little reluctantly. His lips were so warm and smooth. Oh, the things those lips had done to her. She got a little weak just remembering.

  “That person is dead for all intents and purposes, Gabe. You can’t refer to me by my former name, ever.”

  He looked hard at her, intent and determined, like he was trying to see into her soul, the scrutiny sending tiny sparks to every nerve ending.

  But then he shrugged and backed away. “Fine, whatever. I’ll call you whatever you want, buy what you sell, and barrel down memory lane with you if that is what gives you a lady boner. But understand I have one goal and one goal only.”

  “You want to see your son.”

  “Of course. You gave me the picture, now I want the real thing.” He put both his hands on her shoulders, intense again. “And answers. I want honest, complete answers.”

  She sighed with resignation. “Okay, I’ll tell you inside.” She started walking toward the path, imagining the conversation. “But be forewarned, you might not like everything I have to say.”

  On the path ahead that curved around some bushes, a man appeared, sunglasses hiding his eyes, a white T-shirt not hiding his muscles. His face angled toward Lila, but she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her.

  He half turned toward Gabe, a few steps behind Lila. Instantly, she stiffened, aware of how close and how big the man was, and how direct his attention seemed. And then she saw the gun on his hip.

  He lifted his right hand and stepped closer, and Lila reacted without a second’s hesitation. She launched to the left, blocking Gabe, and whipped out her pistol from the back holster, the barrel aimed squarely at the man before he took his next breath.

  “Whoa!” He threw his arms in the air as Gabe vaulted closer and put his hand on Lila’s arm.

  “Don’t shoot.”

  “Normally, I’d have an issue with a greeting like that on resort property, but…” The man took off his sunglasses and gave her an intense look. “Maybe Gabe is about to tell me you’re here to interview for a job with me and you’re showing off your bodyguard skills.”

  The adrenaline dumped, and Gabe tightened his hand on her arm, giving her a surprisingly much-needed bit of support.

  “Luke McBain, this is my friend Lila Wickham. And this guy”—he gestured to the other man—“is not a threat, but, in fact, is the head of security and owner of McBain Security, our crackerjack bullet catcher team keeping hordes of rich vacationers safe from harm.”

  Luke, a rugged man in his mid-thirties, laughed easily at the description. “We’re growing and hiring. But you can put that weapon down now.”

  She lowered her Glock and slipped it back into the tiny holster at her back.

  “I assume you have a permit for that,” Luke said.

  “Of course.” She reached for her tiny shoulder bag, but Gabe put a casual arm around her, protective but light.

  “No fears. Lila’s well-trained, fully licensed, and not threatening the locals.”

  Luke nodded. “Gabe’s blessing is all I need. Nice to meet you, Lila. Have you ever thought about personal security?”

  Gabe stepped between them. “Don’t you have a couple billionaires to protect, Deputy Dawg?”

  Luke smiled, getting the message and saying good-bye. When he was out of earshot, Gabe inched closer and pressed his warm, strong hand a little harder on her back. “What kind of trouble are you in, blondie?”

  Of course he’d figure out by her over-the-top reaction to an armed stranger that she was on the run. Because he was Gabe, perceptive and smart, and dear God, he smelled good.

  “I’m not in trouble, just cautious.”

  “And let me guess…you need a place to hide and a new identity.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Among other things.”

  “It would have been easier to just walk into my office and ask for help.”

  “But not nearly as much fun.”

  He slowed his step, looking at her. “That sounded like something Isadora would say.”

  “That’s because I am Isadora,” she whispered.

  She could feel disbelief roll off him as he stared her down.

  “But now Isa is Lila Wickham. You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t have to do jack shit except see my son.”

  “Not until you believe me. I will not, under any circumstances, let you meet him until I am one hundred percent convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that you trust me.”

  “Trust? I thought you claimed to know me.”

  She conceded with a nod. “Until you believe me, then.”

  “Okay, fine.” He nudged her toward the house. “I believe you.”

  “You don’t,” she said on a sigh. “But you will before you see Rafe. You will.”

  Chapter Six

  Gabe sat at the counter bar of the kitchen where they’d had their argument the night before. As Lila poured two tall glasses of iced tea, he studied her hands and prepared to lay on a few of his own lies.

  He’d make her think he believed her.
A few questions, the right answers, and he’d fake-celebrate her home.

  Whatever it took to get information and access to the child she called Rafe.

  Her hands looked…familiar as she squeezed a lemon and stirred the drink. Except for the bright red nail polish, which Isadora had hated.

  These hands were thinner, bonier like the rest of her, but…they could be Isadora’s hands.

  He let his gaze drift up, taking in the way she held her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the shape of her brows. Was it possible? Yes, there was a vague whisper of a resemblance to the woman in his memory. Did she still favor her right leg ever so slightly when she walked? No one else would notice that but a spy, or someone who happened to notice that she wore the soles of her right shoe down faster than the left.

  He muttered a curse and stuffed his fingers through his hair to drag some back.

  She looked up at him. “I know it’s hard to accept, Gabe.”

  She spoke in that natural, flat Midwestern voice that sounded just like Isa’s. Only behind closed doors, though, he noticed. Outside, even with no one around, she was all British proper.

  Accept. Hah. He was curious, confused, and pissed off. But he wasn’t even in the same zip code as accepting. “I’m waiting for your explanation, which better be rock solid, crystal clear, and include the full address and complete security report for my son.”

  The impatience and force in his tone made her eyes shutter as she handed him a glass. “Come outside in the sunshine.”

  “Fuck the sunshine.” He slammed the glass on the granite. “Sit your ass down on this stool”—he pointed to the one next to him at the kitchen bar—“and start spilling state secrets, and don’t stop until I know everything about you, your problems, why you’re here, and my son. In fact, start with him.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Don’t tell me what to believe.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Still the control freak, I see.”

  Anger sparked. “If you’re going to pull off Isa, you might try to be a little sweeter.”

  “People change.”

  He inched back, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. “Was that supposed to be sarcasm?”

  “It was supposed to be the truth, which I promised you.” She came around to sit next to him, giving her forehead a rub, but he watched her gait. A little different, but he could make the argument that she walked like Isadora.

  Son of a bitch.

  “I don’t want to fight,” she said.

  “Just tell me about Rafe.”

  She sat down, sipped her tea, and gave him a rare smile. “He’s an incredible kid.”

  Of course he was. Gabe swallowed the comment with some tea and waited for her to go on.

  “Really smart and inquisitive and, oh my God, he’s…” She laughed, shaking her head, pressing her thumb to her temple as if the very thought gave her a headache.

  “He’s what?”

  She bit her lip, her dark eyes glimmering in a way he hadn’t seen before. “He’s bad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he’s bad,” she repeated with a shrug. “The terror of preschool. He spends so much time in the corner there are tally marks on the walls.”

  He couldn’t help it, the image made him smile. “Some genes die hard.”

  She gave him a rueful smile, and he tried—really tried—to see Isadora in that expression. How many bars had they sat in, cozy and close to each other, laughing about a shared joke, knowing the night would end with ball-blasting sex that would leave them both beyond satisfied?

  But this woman? Very little about Lila was like the woman he’d loved to drink and laugh with. This woman was…attractive, if you liked edgy, controlling blondes draped in secrets and deceit. He didn’t.

  She lifted her iced tea in a pretend toast. “Rafe is your clone right up to and including his, uh, colorful four-year-old vocabulary. Is that genetic?”

  “I don’t know.” The question called for a smile, but when reminded of the child’s age, nothing amused him. “He’s turning five in June,” he said simply. “Nearly five years that I’ve missed.”

  She averted her eyes, then closed them altogether, like the liar that she was.

  “If you really are Isadora…” If. Like there was any doubt that she wasn’t. “Then you’d better have a good reason for keeping my son from me all these years. Like, you were abducted by aliens and living on Mars until the day you showed up here.”

  She slid her hand up and down the crystal, thinking for a long time before answering. “I knew the assignment was undercover. I didn’t know…how severe. And I didn’t know when I accepted it that I was pregnant.”

  He inched closer, aching for the answer to a question that had plagued him in the middle of a lot of sleepless nights. “Isadora was on the pill.”

  She nodded slowly. “Isadora forgot to take it one time and thought she’d be okay.” She gave him a dark look. “Which is why I didn’t dream I could be pregnant and didn’t pay any attention to my schedule or the changes in my body. When they started happening, I was deep in training for a new job, totally preoccupied. I didn’t gain much weight or experience sickness. It wasn’t until a pre-surgery blood test that I found out I was pretty far along. They were willing to make concessions and wait until I had the baby to do the surgeries.”

  Plausible, possible even. “So you were pregnant when you left?”

  She nodded. “Maybe that was why I was so emotional when I tried to tell you. Well, we were both emotional,” she added. “At least, we were after we made love and I told you I was leaving.”

  His whole body tensed and froze. How could she know something so intimate? Who could have gotten that particular truth out of Isadora? This woman had to be guessing. It was a huge part of a great cover, something they were all trained to do. Pick up clues and make assumptions and speak with authority, and you can pass.

  But the way he’d delayed the conversation that morning was no assumption. That was a memory.

  “I don’t really remember the details,” he said gruffly, and even on this stranger’s face, he could see disappointment register at his lie. He remembered the details, every single one, right down to the bone-deep pleasure of his last killer orgasm with Isadora.

  “I do.” She twisted the barstool so she was facing him directly. “And I remember the argument, and how you walked out without saying good-bye, good luck, or good riddance. Or,” she added with a surprisingly soft touch of her fingertips to his arm, “three little words we used to say with such frequency.”

  Neither one of them had said those words that morning.

  More blood drained from his head. Memory-stealing software and a hot chick describing sex. This was exactly how dark intelligence worked. He had to remember that.

  He looked her straight in the eye. “Go on.”

  “You want more details? What we said? How we moaned? You came like a freight train and I didn’t. Then we had a fight, and you mocked my friend and…and you left in a typical Gabe Rossi temper tantrum.”

  “Shit.” He pushed back hard, nearly toppling his stool, giving up on Plan A to pretend to believe her. “Motherhumping scientists. How did they do this, and where the hell is Isadora?”

  She didn’t even flinch. “I’m right here, and there were no scientists, just a lot of very talented surgeons.”

  He stared at her, fighting for each breath, feeling his nostrils flare as another round of fury and frustration rattled him right to the bone. “Even if you were…are…” He shook his head and felt the punch of what was really killing him.

  This could be true. He knew that much. It was improbable and rare, but not impossible. Just like her pregnancy. “How?” he asked.

  “How do you think? Countless surgeries, including facial recon, breast reduction, eye dying and chemical straightening and hair-color changes. Don’t forget this lovely beak of a Roman nose.”

  “That’s not a Ro
man nose.”

  She rolled her eyes. “They called it ‘aquiline,’ which is a nice way of saying a little too big for my face.”

  It was prominent, but so were her cheekbones and jaw. It all fit, somehow. She was elegant and structured, where Isadora had been pretty and soft.

  But if he looked really hard…he could see things that may or may not be there.

  “Look here.” She lifted her hair along her temple, pulling it taut so he could see the fine line of a scar he hadn’t seen on his first inspection. “And here.” She pushed her ear forward to show another. “And these.” She closed her eyes and stretched the lid, where a close examination showed a line so tiny it could have been a premature wrinkle.

  “There’s a lot more changed than your…her…face.” He gestured to her body but really meant her personality.

  “Trust me, I have scars on my legs, under my arms, and along the bottoms of my breasts. Liposuction, the bone surgery, a complete change of diet, and a year of personal training, and I have a different body. Some would say better, but…” She lifted a shoulder. “I liked my cushions.”

  He just stared at her.

  “And so did you,” she added, jabbing her verbal knife a little deeper.

  “And the rest? The way you walk and talk and move is different.”

  She blinked at him. “Training in a new posture and carriage, eliminating gestures and linguistic tics. None of that is twenty-first century. The CIA’s been doing it for decades.”

  “Isa’s linguistic tics were overusing people’s names and tending to say ‘just’ more than necessary.” Not that he’d noticed, but she’d told him that once.

  “And you love alliteration.”

  And she’d told him that, too.

  “We all have language crutches and, being a linguist, it was very easy to change mine. Even easier to learn a subtle British accent.” She smiled. “It’s quite the natural way for me to speak now,” she added, slightly emphasizing the accent that he’d already grown so used to he barely noticed it when she spoke.

  For a minute, Gabe stayed silent, taking it all in, processing, judging, and knowing, deep in his soul, this very well could be the truth.